Madsen rubbed the back of his head where the knot pulsed. He could’ve sworn that he could hear Sartre laughing in the cockpit above him, but the metal that separated these compartments made him doubt himself. His elbow rested on the bag of foam chips; his hands were still bound tight with the ties. Sartre was wrong about stealing the beryllium. Sort of, anyway. He did win big in Martian poker on Europa 11, not enough to wipe away all his debts, but enough to collect the beryllium as collateral. He was supposed to return it to Qidan and get ten thousand iron credits in exchange, but he figured the beryllium was better, and he knew what to do with it. It was definitely needed elsewhere.
Madsen had certainly gotten lucky on Europa 11. He didn’t have a bad hand. And as soon he won, he came up
